Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
DION
NOW
I look at the caller ID. It’s my dad.
“I have to take this,” I mumble, and I point to the room behind the counter. I don’t look at Benji as I rush in that direction and close the door behind me.
“Dad, hi, are you okay?”
“Yeah, of course, I just got your message,” he says, his Scouse accent barely detectible these days but I still hear it. “Do you need me to come down there and try and get you out?”
A brief image of my dad and his rarely used toolbox making the journey to try and break into the studio flashes behind my eyes and I suppress a laugh. It would never happen.
“Nah,” I say. “It’s okay. Emmy is coming in the morning. I’m warm and dry. There’s enough food, we won’t starve.”
“We?”
Shit. I close my eyes. “Yeah, I’m locked in with a client,” I explain.
“Oh, that’s … awkward.”
“Yeah, something like that.” I glance quickly through the glass panel at Benji, who is still sitting in the same position, staring into his mug like he’s lost in thought. “Are you okay? I know Mum’s working late and I didn’t make dinner yet.”
“Dion, I’m fine,” Dad says with extra emphasis. “I can handle making myself some toast. May even boil an egg or two.”
I bite my lip as I imagine Dad dealing with boiling water and the gas hob.
“It’s good for me,” he continues. “I rely on you too much.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I know he relies on me. But how do I tell him that it’s not a bad thing. That I want him to, without making him feel more and more out of touch with his independence.
“Mum will be back around nine, right? So you’ll be okay until then?”
“Of course,” he says, and I can almost hear the smile in his voice. The slow smiles he likes to give me even though I sometimes sense they are an effort for him.
“But you can call Mrs Taylor, if you have to,” I remind him. Shirley Taylor has been our next-door neighbour all my life and has helped me many a time when I needed an extra pair of hands.
“Yes, but then I have to be sociable,” he teases.
“Ugh, I hate being sociable,” I agree.
“Like father, like son,” he says, and I wonder if he knows just how much that makes my heart swell.
“And you can call me, if you need to.”
“And stop you being sociable with that client of yours? Wouldn’t dream of it. Are they really pissed off?”
I look through the internal window again and see Benji rubbing at his stomach again. I wonder if he needs any meds or any particular foods for his illness or bag. He didn’t say anything when I mentioned the food in the staff fridge but maybe he’s embarrassed.
“Actually, he’s pretty nice,” I admit.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, he’s someone I used to go to school with.”
“You hated everyone you went to school with.”
“Well, yeah, but this guy I didn’t hate quite as much as the others.”
Dad’s laugh reverberates softly down the phone line. “Enjoy reminiscing then,” he says. “I’ll see you later, son. And don’t worry about me.”
“I won’t,” I lie, and then I hang up.
A text from my mum has come through in our group chat while I was on the phone.
Locked in a tattoo studio? That doesn’t sound as fun as a pub lock-in but a slightly wilder Friday night than Eastenders and a take-away. Let us know if we can help.
I’m fine. Love you.
I text back and am about to pocket my phone when I see my dad typing. Curiosity gets the better of me and I wait for him to send the message he’s working on with his one good hand.
He’s stuck there with an old friend from school. One he didn’t hate as much as others.
Interesting …
Mum is quick to comment.
I roll my eyes but bite back a smile at the same time.
Get home safe, Mum.
I text and then tuck my phone away.
Benji is standing now, looking closer at some of the framed art that covers the wall in front of him. “Are any of these yours?” he asks as I approach him and return to the chair I was sitting in.
“A few,” I say, and I point at a couple of photos that feature some of my fine line and watercolour designs. “These ones.”
“Wow,” Benji bends to look at them. “I guess what I wanted was pretty boring.”
“I like doing pieces like yours,” I tell him honestly. “Pieces that have real meaning. A real story.”
He smiles at me and then turns to sit back down. “So what’s your story then?”
I’m a little affronted by the question. It was direct and delivered without preamble, which doesn’t seem very … Benji. Or maybe it’s the question itself that has me stumped. Because how can I tell him my story without revealing … everything.
“What do you want to know?” I deflect.
Benji’s eyes drop to his shoes but then lift just as suddenly, and at the same time I see a new blush in his cheeks. “Was that your partner … on the phone?”
It feels like someone has lassoed a rope around my heart and tugged on it, all without my permission or foresight. Am I happy that Benji seems curious about my relationship status? Am I getting … queer vibes from him?
“No, that was my dad,” I say.
“Who has MS?”
“Yes, I just wanted to make sure he has everything he needs while I’m … here.”
“So you really are like a carer for him?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“That’s tough,” Benji says.
“No,” I say quickly, defensiveness rising sharply in me. “No, it’s not. It’s what anyone would do. It’s what you do for family.”
The colour drains from his face at my outburst, but then his mouth twitches and his smile returns. A brave smile. “I was speaking from experience,” he says. “I was my mum’s carer for most of the last eight or so months. And it was really tough, for me. So I was imagining it was tough for you too.”
“Of course it’s not a walk in the park,” I say, still sounding defensive. “But I don’t mind doing it. I want to.”
Benji nods and I can’t tell if it’s in agreement with me or because he knows I won’t be shifting from this standpoint. That brave little smile pulls up the right side of his mouth again.
“So, if that wasn’t your partner on the phone, does that mean you’re single then?”
Maybe it’s that cheeky grin. Maybe it’s the way his blue eyes sparkle.
Maybe it’s the way he’s still stroking his stomach, under his clothes, in a way that has me itching to run my fingers up and down the smooth skin there that I caught a peek at earlier.
Whatever it is, I find myself smiling back at him.
“Are you flirting with me?” I ask.
Benji’s confident expression disappears, replaced with alarm and horror. “I’m … I’m …”
“It’s okay if you are.” I reach for my tea and down the remaining liquid. “I just didn’t think you were queer.”
Benji relaxes again and it brings me more relief than it should. “Well, actually, yes, I am. I’m bisexual.”
I blink at him. “You’re bisexual? Since when?” I catch my wince before it lands on my face. What does it matter how long he’s been queer? It shouldn’t matter to a stranger which is what he thinks I am.
“Since the last few years of school.”
“School?” I practically squeak. He’s lying. “Really?”
Benji’s eyes narrow quizzically on me. “Well, yeah, I came out to my mum when I was eighteen but I’d been kissing boys for a while before then.”
“You? You’d been kissing boys at school?” The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them.
His frown Deepens. “I … There was one guy. He was on the football team with me. We had this … thing.”
I’m suddenly aware that my jaw has been hanging open for too long. I close it and swallow down the hundred questions I want to ask. Benji Smith was kissing a boy on the football team. What the fuck!?
“Don’t look so shocked. Footballers can be queer too.” He laughs at me and I hate how much I like his smile. It’s always been a bit big for his slim face.
“I know.” I say defensively. “I’m just … surprised.”
“Well, you shouldn’t be. It’s not like you know anything about me.”
“Right,” I agree solemnly.
“And what about you?” He nods at my T-shirt.
“Well, yeah, I’m queer.” I look down. “I’m bisexual too. And trans.”
He seems shocked but to give him credit, it’s schooled off his face in less than two seconds.
“That must have been … a lot,” he says, then shakes his head. “I mean, it must be a lot. Still. Oh, fuck. I’m saying the wrong thing, aren’t I?”
“Actually, no. You’re doing better than most,” I tell him with a laugh.
“Are people really dicks to you?” He looks genuinely concerned.
“Not all the time, no.” I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees and my head on my balled-up hands. “And honestly, you’re not saying the wrong thing. It has been hard. But it’s also getting easier, I think.”
“That’s good. That’s important,” he says earnestly. “You know, you didn’t answer my question, earlier.”
“What question?” I ask, knowing exactly which question.
He starts picking at a scuffed patch on the leather of the sofa. “You know, about being single.”
“Oh, that,” I say slowly. “Yeah, I’m single.”
His blue eyes light up, like a disco ball, and his too-big smile gets the better of his face again.
He’s not even trying to hide his pleasure at my answer, and I’m not used to it.
Especially not from someone who I thought was straight, and someone who, frankly, was a bit of an idiot at school.
Memories come flooding back. The kissing booth at Christmas.
The stupid prank he pulled asking me to the Leavers’ Ball.
And then what happened at the ball itself.
It strikes me now that I have a choice. I could tell him who I am and I know, without a doubt, he’ll instantly be put off.
I could explain, but I know then that this moment — whatever this is — will pass, will be extinguished like a candle getting snuffed out.
There’s no way he will want to even think about pursuing something with me when he knows who I really am.
Or I could keep it a secret and I could explore where this could go.
Not that I think it will go beyond a quick, awkward kiss.
Or one night of kissing and then a lifetime of nodding uncomfortably at each other as we pass in the street or coming out of the only decent independent coffee shop because this town is just too damn small.
I honestly don’t know which option is more appealing.
“You know,” Benji shifts forward and copies my position, “I have to say, there’s something about you.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. Shit. If he figures it out for himself then it doesn’t really matter what I want, does it? Heat followed swiftly by a chill travels down my spine.
“You …” He stops himself, looks down and rolls his lips into his mouth. “Look, I don’t do this. Like, ever, but I like you. I mean, I’m attracted to you. And well, if we could maybe, I don’t know, go for coffee after this is all over, I’d really like that.”
Well, fuck. He’s being Mr Nice Guy. I fucking hate that.
But that doesn’t mean I need to play by the same rules.
I stand up, and honestly, it shocks me as much as it shocks him.
But I’ve done it now. No going back. Because we’ll never go for coffee.
When he knows who I am and he remembers what we were to each other fifteen years ago, he’ll never want to see me again.
And while that pains me, I think I know a way to soften the blow.
“Why wait for coffee?” I ask and I hold out my hand to him.
Benji stares at my hand for a long time and I wish I knew just a few of the thoughts rushing through his mind.
After what feels like the longest minute of my life, he places his palm in mine, and a jolt of electricity surges up my arm, filling the rest of my body.
Benji’s eyes travel up to meet my gaze and he smiles at me.
The electricity melts away to a warm glow and his eyes are bluer than ever, like the sky on a sunny day.
“Do you feel it too?” he asks.
This heat? This attraction? This need to fuck your brain out through your ears? Yes, I feel it, I think. But I don’t say that. Instead, I narrow my eyes at him and wait for him to elaborate.
“I feel like I already know you,” he says, and then he stands, his body just an inch away from mine. Warmth from his body caresses mine and I make the mistake of looking up at him, into those cursed eyes again. “But that’s crazy, right?”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.